A wealthy restaurant owner laughed while refusing to pay my mom for seventy-seven days of work, convinced nobody would ever challenge him. Then I walked into the private room of Chicago's most feared mafia boss with a crumpled sheet of paper, and the entire restaurant went silent before anyone even knew my name.

It was a rainy Tuesday evening, just as the restaurant was shutting down for the night.

Mara was in the back counting the daily register cash, while the kitchen staff was finishing up the dishes. Rory was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs, waiting for her mother.

Suddenly, the side emergency door of the kitchen was kicked open with a loud BANG.

A man stumbled inside, soaked in rain, reeking of alcohol, his eyes wild and bloodshot. It was Sterling.

He was wearing a filthy, tattered coat, his hair unkempt, holding a small, silver revolver in his trembling, shaking hand.

"Where is she?!" Sterling screamed, his voice cracking with madness. "Where is Mara?!"

The kitchen staff gasped, backing away into the corners, throwing their hands in the air.

Mara ran out from the back office, hearing the noise, and froze when she saw the gun pointed directly at her. "Sterling?!"

"You ruined my life!" Sterling shrieked, his hands shaking violently as he aimed the barrel at Mara's chest. "You and your little brat! I had millions! I had respect! Now I live in a cheap motel because of you!"

"Sterling, put the gun down!" Mara cried out, shielding Rory behind her body on the counter. "Please! Don't do this!"

"I’m taking what’s mine!" Sterling roared, pulling a canvas sack from his pocket. "Put all the cash in the bag! NOW! Or I swear to God I’ll pull this trigger!"

Rory peeked out from behind her mother’s waist, her small eyes wide with fear, but she didn't cry.

"You're a bad man," Rory said softly.

"Shut up, you little brat!" Sterling screamed, shifting his gun toward Rory. "Shut your—"

CLICK.

The sound of a heavy firearm being cocked echoed from the dark hallway behind Sterling.

"Put the gun down, Sterling," a cold, smooth voice commanded from the shadows.

Sterling whipped around in a panic. Standing in the doorway was Vincent Kane, holding a heavy black pistol pointed straight at Sterling's forehead. Beside him, Leo and Marco moved in from both sides, cutting off every escape route.

"Kane?!" Sterling stammered, sweat pouring down his face like rain. "Stay back! I’ll shoot her! I swear I’ll shoot!"

Kane didn't even blink. He took one step forward, his eyes pitch black with lethal intent.

"If that barrel moves one millimeter closer to that child," Kane whispered in a voice that sounded like death itself, "you won't live long enough to hear the gunshot."

Sterling looked into Kane’s eyes and realized the absolute truth: he was dealing with a man who felt no fear, no hesitation, and no mercy for people who threatened those he protected.

Sterling’s hand began to shake so violently he couldn't keep the gun steady. The reality of what he was doing finally hit him. He dropped the revolver onto the wet tile floor, falling to his knees, sobbing hysterically.

"I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don't kill me!" Sterling begged, pressing his forehead against the ground.

Leo stepped forward, kicked the revolver away, and pulled Sterling up by his collar, pinning him against the wall.

Kane didn't shoot him. Instead, he looked at Leo.